


An Evil Bastard

by Damceon



Series: Character Backstories [14]
Category: Gamer Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23256706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damceon/pseuds/Damceon
Summary: A character for a campaign surrounding evil characters.
Series: Character Backstories [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672036





	An Evil Bastard

Traits: Charming, Magical Talent

Qarosh

Life in the city was never easy… being a commoner made him more likely to go unnoticed, unless he broke the law, but it didn’t afford any creature comforts. Scraping by day after day, until reaching manhood, Qarosh drew the eye of a capricious young noblewoman.

Clergy, magi, aristocracy… the matriarchy was many things… which gave them entitlement when it came time to choosing a mate. Perhaps she’d only wanted a dalliance. Perhaps she’d wanted him for a proper mate, or to be one of the men in her stable. Qarosh didn’t know or care. He knew enough about nobles to be wary… and he was young enough to be driven by foolish lust.

So she took him to her bed. The night went well.

The following morning, she dismissed him and Qarosh made his way back to his home. Her elder sister found him before he could get home. She was not as beautiful as her younger sister… but far more cunning and alluring… enticing with words as snaring as any spider’s web. She took him to _his_ bed… but her many shadows were not just bodyguards. She brought to his home a magus that worked powerful magic while Qarosh sowed her womb with his seed.

He felt the pull at his being, just at the height of their joining… something had been taken beyond what he’d dutifully (and gladly) delivered. It was months before he would ever know what.

The young noblewoman called on him again in the following weeks, driven by what desire Qarosh would never fully understand. She took him in as a mate… a plaything for her pleasure. She was not unkind, and Qarosh found this role to his liking.

In the weeks that followed his attendance on the noblewoman, it became clear that both sisters were with child. Qarosh would wonder often about the ritual, then. But the nearly simultaneous births cast all doubt from his mind.

The elder sister gave forth a healthy girl-child, noble-born with great promise in the omens.

The younger sister gave forth a still-born son, less than common and half-formed.

The clamor of the house lasted for days and Qarosh did all he could to disappear. The twisting web of politics and law found him to be an offense to the house, until it came to be known that he had been studding for both sisters.

So, to relieve the younger noblewoman’s outrage without sullying the auspicious birth of the elder noblewoman’s daughter, Qarosh was sentenced to exile.

Stripped of name and property, he was given only what he could wear and a sword.

He knew nothing of the wild tunnels, wandering lost for several days before catching a draft of crisp air and the twinkling of distant moss-light.

The night sky was a dizzying sight, even so exhausted and famished as he was. Qarosh stared in wonder into the tapestry of stars, losing himself in its vastness. The sky began to burn, the darkness retreating from the clawing rays of the sun. It was a time of many revelations, that first sunrise. It blinded, dazzling… he could not bear to look at it, but his fascination pulled his gaze back to it time and again. It seared his vision with flares of white and yellow and red, but the sky turned orange and white and blue.

Qarosh felt he would tumble from the ground and up into the sky, lost forever. He collapsed, shivering with fever on the ground for several moments.

“Here, now… that won’t do.” The voice in his mind was cold, irritated. “Back on your feet, little mortal.”

He answered by struggling to stand, his legs weak and wobbly as his lungs gasped for air over parched lips. He was so thirsty!

“Better.” And a massive hand… Hand?! Scales and claws, the talon of a great and terrible beast! It was turning him, but the light still hurt his eyes. The voice spoke with more authority than any magister or cleric from his home, but he could not see clearly the face of whatever held him.

“Look there.” And Qarosh was looking at a stream of water running down the cliff face near the tunnel he’d left in the night, the water gathering in a swirling pool before gathering force and dancing down the hillside in a glittering cascade.

“Drink.” He was told, and Qarosh fell upon the pool greedily. It was the coldest water he’d ever tasted, and empty. He could taste nothing of the earth in it, or smell more than the wetness of the rocks beneath him. The world was a haze of white fire, but the water soothed and numbed his aches.

“Are you refreshed, mortal?” The voice carried a hint of amusement, but there was an urgency… Qarosh shielded his eyes from the burning sun to look toward a great shadow near the tunnel’s mouth.

The mighty devil that stood there was very still, terrifying as it was. At its feet was a vaguely familiar sword… Qarosh’s sword. Its clawed feet were as long as his arms, it’s clawed hands as long as his torso. He swallowed hard, the chill of the water turning to a rancid knot of ice in his belly.

Great leathery wings swept up from the beast’s back, its body covered in ruddy scales and its fiendish face smiling with dagger-sharp teeth down at him. It had a tail, but the swishing limb blurred in the edges of the sunlight.

“Are you refreshed, mortal?” There was no mirth, now. The question demanded his answer. Qarosh could feel the life draining from his limbs as terror swept through him.

“Yes.” He choked the word out and he was instantly shoved backward to splash unceremoniously into the freezing water of the pool.

He could smell sulfur and ash, the scents of burning flesh and stone mixed with the coppery taste of blood as the white sunlight erupted in a ball of green flames. His body grew cold, a nagging pull in his chest like a sprained muscle…

“Listen closely, mortal.” The monstrous face consumed all he could see, it was everywhere… everything. “Listen, for if you do not listen; you will die.”

He wanted to scream, to flail, to fight, to run… but he could do nothing. He could not even blink. Everything burned. He could feel the gaping wound in his chest, now. His heart was laid bare to the burning sun, his body half-submerged in the blood-clouded pool of water. The rushing sound in his ears was slowing, the thundering beat of his heart growing more faint.

“My master is owed a debt.” The face smiled its dagger smile, teeth and scales and rage-filled eyes so cunning and keen. “A debt of blood, passed down for generations. He is calling in the marker, now. You do not need to understand, mortal. You need only choose. Will you serve now and live, or die now and suffer? Before you choose…”

There is a hateful pause. Deliberate. A hesitation that fills Qarosh with longing and fear.

“You must obey my Master, mortal.” He can see the intelligence in those eyes, even as Qarosh’s heartbeat begins its last pulse. “…but he does not expect you to accept this bargain blindly. He wants souls, and you will deliver them. Your soul is already forfeit. It was decided long ago. Perhaps your service will be rewarded, and my Master will let you have vengeance on those responsible for your exile. Perhaps you desire to be a mortal king… a mortal of power and influence… perhaps you desire wealth… women… perhaps you desire a legacy…”

Qarosh’s breath stops, his heart becomes still… but those eyes hold his gaze even as his soul struggles to be free of its ragged flesh.

“Loyal service can be rewarded. My Master can be generous. The pact was written long ago, by your reckoning. Will you uphold your end of the bargain?”

“I want to renegotiate.” Qarosh struggled to breathe, but his soul was sinking into fire.

“A deliciously _refreshing_ request.” The smile grows wider, the jaws open and swallow everything.

…

“Agreed.” The smiling face vanishes. “If you thought dying was painful, you are in for a surprise.”

Pain did not begin to describe what Qarosh felt. The hole in his chest was the avenue by which the essence of the damned would be tied to his soul. The merging of souls was akin to death and birth at the same instant, coupled with the agony of his wound being forcibly knit shut.

Lurching up, Qarosh sat in the water gasping for air. He could still smell brimstone and steam rolled off his skin. The bloody murk of the pool was slowly dwindling downstream, the chill of the water somewhat less piercing than before. Qarosh’s chest ached terribly and, looking down, he saw the great rent in his armor that revealed the gnarled purple scar crossing his bare flesh. The wound was closed but it was not healed. The stirring essence placed there by the monstrous devil was seeping through him.

He crawled from the water, toward his sword. The earth was scarred and scorched where the devil had stood. Qarosh rolled the taste of his own blood around in his mouth, using the sword like a cane to steady himself as he stood.

_Welcome to Hell, mortal._ The voice in his mind was deafening, shuddering him to his bones. _Are you ready to begin the first lesson?_

Without warning, images raced through Qarosh’s vision, filling his mind with agony as the infernal essence bonded itself to the fragmented soul still in his body. The rest, Qarosh knew, was already suffering in Hell.

He would do their bidding. For the Glory of the First, they said. For Order. His was not to question why, but to do. If he proved useful, his time as a mortal would be rewarded. If not, the balance of his soul would be dragged to its fate. If he was successful in his task, his reward might even be to join the ranks of elite devils in service of the First. Duty, Obedience, Strength.

Even as the pain wracked his body, Qarosh felt a calming chill in his flesh. He was here to deliver punishment, for the lands of mortals were filled with corruption and weakness.

Qarosh could feel the bone reshaping on his forehead, the skin breaking over the tiny horns that sprouted high above the corners of his eyes. The essence grew less discernable, more part of himself… Qarosh began to feel whole again.

“I will deliver them as promised.” Qarosh nodded stoically. “Which way do we go from here?”

As though pulled by an inner force, his gaze fell upon the faint trail of smoke drifting up in the sky. Far below the foothills where he stood, a village teemed with life. Mortal souls carrying on their chaotic, disorganized existences without a care for the destruction they left in their wake.

He knew a frontal assault would be futile. All drow knew this. Though he was truly a drow no longer, he remembered his life from before. Even the wretched females that had sought to bind him in their webs of greed were contemptuous. Perhaps, if his duties allowed, he would liberate his progeny from their influence and bring her to the fold of the First. If not, he saw little point in its continued mortal existence in this land of delusional parasites.

…

Qarosh came to know Des’Thra, The Goremaw. The devil to whom he was inextricably bound. Together, they would forge a path through the mortal lands, seeking to deliver judgement to the corrupt.

He would need help. He would need to find those of like mind, those who worked for the Glory of the First. Like many travelers, some would not even know the road they were on was the same as Qarosh. He could study them, learn who could be useful and who would be a hindrance. For now, the path would be written in blood and deception.

The portents given to him through the rituals taught by Des’Thra guided his steps to a large human city. Here, he could find a mortal ally that was consumed by rage and fealty. Qarosh felt a mote of empathy, seeing the kinship of their paths.

“Where do I find this one?” He asked Goremaw, but Des’Thra could not answer.

_We will need deeper knowing… a suitable sacrifice must be made._

So Qarosh slipped into the city, a ragged traveler looking only for a hot meal and warm bed for the night. Such is the gullibility of the mortal mind that the lie passed easily for the truth, as many lies taste of truth in the beginning.

Qarosh stalked his prey carefully, searching out the purest specimen he could find in the city. It was the soul least spoiled by chaos, least driven by vice, and still strong enough to be of use. The girl was no more than ten and four years, a maiden daughter of a human noble. Qarosh seduced the child’s handmaid to get closer to the girl. The handmaid was a filthy rutting beast of chaos, a human woman with voracious appetites. Wanton and foolish. Allowing her to deceive herself was no great task.

Qarosh gave her soul to Hell, spilling his seed into her even as he drove his dagger through her breast and into her heart. Des’Thraw disposed of the flesh of the handmaid, devouring her heart before casting the body into the flames and putting her room to the torch.

The girl-child was another matter. Qarosh took great pains to keep the child unspoiled, struggling to keep her calm and unaware of his true purpose. It was only through a careful poison he was able to abscond with the whelp.

She lay helpless, in a near-sleep at the center of the ritual circle. Des’Thra watched and listened, nodding in grim approval as Qarosh performed the ritual adequately. As her startled scream faded into a dying gasp, Qarosh made his request. The infernal tongue was foreign to him, yet he spoke with ease by merit of the devil soul bound to his own.

“Where shall I find my greatest mortal ally in this city; an elf whose desires are meager reflections of true purpose?” Qarosh listened intently, his ears straining to hear the infernal whispers that would come.

_Elf lord, mortal full of hate, wearing chains given by spite… Blood will bind path to path, the road opens for those with eyes to see._

So, Qarosh waited. He dismissed Des’Thra, for the devil would not be able to accompany him easily on his next journey. Taking several minutes to hide his most valuable of meager possessions, Qarosh returned to the ritual site and waited for the guards and templars to find him.

He said nothing at their first meeting, knowing they would rain their wild fury on him rather than treat with him. They would not understand. He would not waste breath trying to convince them. Qarosh was beaten into unconsciousness.

Waking in irons, dressed in a wool tunic that stank of death and filth, Qarosh was pleased to see his cell met every expectation. Amid the wails and whimpers of the imprisoned, Qarosh heard a more subtle voice. Seething with bitterness and contempt, the elven voice was music to Qarosh’s ears. He knew the elven tongue near as well he knew the tongue of the drow. Two dialects of the same language.

“A cousin is met.” Qarosh spoke loud enough, he hoped, to be heard by the elf.

“A cousin shares misfortune.” Then the sound of a throat clearing and spitting. “They will hang me soon.”

“And I.” Qarosh did not smile, though he felt pleased that he could see his path clear enough to be without concern. “Two travelers of the same road can share the path.”

“I’d rather the path be among the trees, not dangling from them.” A sour chuckle. “Perhaps washing my hands in blood was hasty.”

“Perhaps not, it led me to you on this road.” Qarosh dared not risk saying more in the prison. They could talk more once they were free of this human city.

The jailors spoke with Qarosh only three times, but he did not give them answers that would satisfy. It was decided that the girl’s father would take custody of Qarosh… a death sentence, to be certain… and his captors seemed to delight in telling him that he would meet an equally brutal death at the skilled hands of the nobleman’s “specialists”. Qarosh remained unconcerned.

He would call Des’Thra to his side when the time was right. More pieces needed yet to fall into place.


End file.
